


Stop, Fast Forward, Pause

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Series: Paranoid Android [2]
Category: Once a Thief (TV)
Genre: Drama, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsession, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-26
Updated: 1999-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pay-Per-View has nothing on Dobrinsky's newest vice. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/113965">Broken Toys</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop, Fast Forward, Pause

He takes pain so beautifully, you know.

It's an art, taking and giving hurt, and in this frail, frozen, second of high resolution hidden camera, Nathaniel is a masterpiece. In typical fashion, he jumped at some non-existent sound and his shin made hard, cold, contact with the iron folding table.

The bugs picked up hardly a sound—not a whimper, nor muffled curse—just a hitch in his breathing. He froze and then straightened, and his eyelids fluttered. His shoulders tensed. Strong teeth pressed down into his lower lip, leaving little indentations. He raised himself slightly on his toes and then lowered himself with a quiet, shuddering breath that shook his narrow chest.

_Stop. Rewind. Play._

Again, the onscreen Nathan releases a quaking exhalation.

_Stop. Rewind. Play._

The slackness of the jaw, the way his head leans slightly back, throat bared...

It's a shaky breath that could so easily be tinged, or tainted, by a moan. God, he looks like he's coming.

I could give him pain. I could give him pleasure. I wonder if he responds half as lovely to the latter. I'll bet he does.

_Pause._

He's returned to work, momentary endorphin rush forgotten. The screen is stilled with Nathan's head in mid-tilt, his body in mid-tense, his eyes in mid-shift. He's the perfect portrait of a paranoiac in transition. He looks lost, his eyes wide, slightly hopeful yet ready to be crushed. He looks like a little boy who's gotten separated from his mother at the grocery store and, thinking he's found her, tugs on the wrong woman's dress and calls her Mommy. One of those kids who sends out screaming siren signals to pedophiles, nutso childless mothers, and other potential predators.

_Fast Forward. Play._

He wants to be found.

He wants to be hurt. The thought comes to me unbidden. It's the vibes he sends out. "Hurt me."  
I've learned that his skin's always clammy, like a little child's or like someone who's been passion-teased for long, languid hours until they're covered in a silvery-fine sheen of sweat. He must taste salty. Sea-salt skin.

He's so pale...

I wonder what he'd look like, spread full-body against me. I'll bet he bruises easily. I'll bet he bruises spectacularly, in vivid scarlet fading to a yellow-tinged indigo.

_Rewind. Play. Pause._

That shuddering breath. If I were holding him, I'd tighten my arms around him at that second to feel the vibration echo down my spine...

_Fast Forward. Play._

He's working now, flipping through battered file folders with practised, mindless accuracy, an unexpected grace of some sort. His teeth are still worrying endlessly at his lower lip. I smile, thinking of all the better uses I could put that mouth to—

_Clack!_

We both jump, him more than me, as a pen, nudged by his sharp elbow, clatters to the floor. It bounces twice as Nathan flinches. He won't pick it up.

He looks around for something else to write with. Spying a pencil, he grasps it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, examining it carefully. He drops it; he forces himself to pick it up again. A miserable mask covers his face as he tries so hard not to work himself into a panic attack over a goddamned pencil. He tries so hard to be sane.

_Stop. Rewind. Play. Pause._

I've got him in mid-tremble, the muscle between his neck and shoulder contracted in a twitch. I could make him shake with pleasure. I could sit him between my outspread legs, bare back against bare chest, wrap my hand around his cock, and break him apart and put him back together again as many times as I wanted. I can almost feel his sweaty skin against the front of my body, against my hand. He would lay his head back on my shoulder, his spiky hair tickling my neck. I can hear his ragged breath echoing in the room. I'd kiss him as he comes. I'd swallow his gasps until we were both dizzy.

I believe it might do him good.

Nothing like rationalizing an obsession to yourself.

It would do him good to relax. A happy worker is a productive worker.

I could make him happy.

Poor, lonely boy. I could make him so happy.

What a power trip.

God, I'm getting half-hard just watching him work, watching him move. I can almost hear his thoughts scurrying about like rats with head trauma on LSD.

_Breathe. Rewind. Stop._

I wait for my arousal to subside. No use in taking care of it here; the Director would enjoy it too much from her end of the security camera. She must be getting quite the kick out of my newest interest, although I know she won't interfere. She's always encouraged hobbies among her agents, and I have a feeling that Nathan will soon be taking up a lot of my spare time.  
For now, back to work, but a quick phone call first. I believe that, unfortunately, poor Nathan's car won't be starting this evening after work. Carburetors are tricky things.

I wonder if my new friend knows not to accept a ride home from a strange man.

I hope not.


End file.
